


a work in progress

by fagsymbiote



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Brief suicidal ideation, Drug Addiction, Gen, kenny p has Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fagsymbiote/pseuds/fagsymbiote
Summary: Kent is managing just fine. Sure, he misses Jack enough that he hasn't had feelings for literally anyone since him, and yeah, he doesn't really have anyone he calls a friend, and maybe he gets high alone in his apartment more often than most people would consider healthy, but it was fine. No big deal. He was kicking ass at hockey, the media loved him, and he was pretty fucking good at keeping up appearances.Or: Kent Parson is convinced to give therapy a shot, and eventually, it's maybe the best thing he's ever been talked into.





	a work in progress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SummerFrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/gifts).



> i really thought i could make this under 5k but here we are!
> 
> the prompt i was given was "I write and crave Kent Parson/therapy pretty much all the time. This prompt honestly doesn't need to be gen, but if you want to write shippy I would prefer the therapy to be the foreground with the ship in the background. Also I would prefer no Patater, please."
> 
> enjoy!!

One of his teammates, Jeff, brought it up. Therapy, getting help, whatever else people called it.

 

He’d been thinking about Jack again; thinking about Jack falling apart underneath him, Jack smiling at him with that fond look in his eyes, Jack being inconsolable when his mom walked in on them, Jack on the bathroom floor next to an empty pill bottle, Jack _leaving_ . Everything about Jack was so vivid that he could almost _feel_ Jack there.

 

He wasn't there though. He hadn't been there in a long time. It used to make Kent _furious_ that Jack could just leave him so easily. Kent just--he wanted so deeply, so wholly, wanted with every fibre of his being, and Jack was willing to toss him out like it was nothing.

 

He used to be angry all the time, at least on the days he wasn't sure Jack would come back to him. He was never sure anymore, but he was too exhausted by the hole Jack’s absence had left to be angry much anymore.

 

Exhausted meant finding as many ways to fill the time as possible.

 

He was the first on the ice and the last off it for practice, he went to events for the team, for charity, he spent time with his teammates when they asked, he drank when there was nothing else to do, did a few lines when he needed to stop feeling like the world was moving too quickly for him to keep up, or when the drinking kept him out too late and he needed to be awake for practice. He wasn't an addict--he could function without the coke, he just needed that extra burst of energy, that feeling of invincibility, from time to time.

 

He fucked it up sometimes though, got plans crossed.

 

Jack wormed his way into the forefront of Kent’s mind, and Kent felt that raw anger he hadn't in _years_. The anger felt damn good. He hated it, hated that he was still in love with Jack, hated Jack for making him into this hollowed-out shell.

 

He called Jack for the first time since the last time he visited Samwell, high on how good it felt to be angry again and the most sober he’d been that month.

 

He didn't know what he was going to say, didn't have a single fucking clue what there _was_ to say, but he needed to scream, needed to fight with Jack like they used to.

 

Only Jack didn't answer.

 

Kent barely registered himself throwing the phone when the automated voice asked him to leave a message, didn't even look as it shattered against the wall.

 

The anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and the exhaustion, the numbness, was back with a vengeance. He needed it gone, he needed to _feel_ something again.

 

So he got up. He picked up his phone, he saw the shattered screen still lit up, he pocketed it, he grabbed his keys, and he walked out of his apartment.

 

First, the liquor store. It was only mid-afternoon, but he was having a shitty day. He bought something he knew would burn on the way down, felt the ghost of that burning as he carried the bottle to the counter to pay.

 

He went back home after that, back to the apartment that was too big to be so empty. He’d drank enough on the drive that it no longer burned in his throat.

 

He was already messaging a number that had grown all too familiar as he unlocked his door, felt a smile half-form at how quickly he got a response. He could count on someone, at least. He didn’t bother to move too far, just closed the front door and sat down just inside it. He knew he wouldn’t be waiting long.

 

And sure enough, there was a knock on the door what couldn’t have been more than five minutes later. He used the wall as leverage as he stood, keeping a tight grip on the bottle in his hand, now close to halfway gone.

 

He opened the door, wide smile on his face at the man on the other side of it.

 

“Hey Davey, glad to see you,” Kent said, bowing slightly as he welcomed David into his apartment.

 

“Parson,” he said, nodding once at Kent as he walked into the apartment. “You already finish off the shit I gave you last time?”

  
David had gained a bit of a reputation; he was the dealer every hockey player that passed through Vegas went to, and the only one Kent would ever trust not to go to the media.

 

Kent shrugged. “Might’ve.” He followed David to the living room. “You’re still gonna give me more though, yeah?”

 

“Long as you can pay,” he agreed.

 

Kent snorted. “You know I can pay. Lemme just-- gotta get the money from my wallet.” He fumbled through his pockets to find his wallet, and pulled out a stack of bills. “However much this’ll get me.”

  
David raised his eyebrows. “It’ll last you longer than a week, I guarantee you that.”

  
He flipped through the bills, counted them under his breath, then pocketed them. Kent flopped down onto the couch, taking another swig from the bottle in his hand as David rifled through the bag he had with him. A few moments later, David handed him a bag with enough cocaine in it that Kent didn’t, in the slightest, doubt David’s assumption that it would last longer than a week. David set it down on the coffee table and grinned at Kent.

 

“Just let me know when you need me again.”

  
  
Kent nodded, already leaning forward to grab the bag, and then David was gone.

 

Kent hardly had to think about this process, it had grown so familiar. He dumped a small pile on the table, cut it into lines with his credit card, and he snorted them. He got no satisfaction from that part anymore. It had grown normal, dull.

 

Then he leaned back, took another drink, and waited to feel something. He just needed to feel something, to prove to himself that Jack wasn’t the only thing that could make him feel.

 

It took longer than it used to, especially with the booze to slow him down.

 

When it finally started to hit, he felt like he was flying compared to the nothingness of before. He felt smug, almost almost wanted to call Jack again, leave a voicemail to brag. Jack wasn’t the only thing that could make him feel on top of the world, not at all.

 

He didn’t quite know what happened after he tried to direct those thoughts to Jack in the hopes Jack would somehow feel it, but there was pop music blaring, he was on the floor of his kitchen, and his head felt like it was splitting open it ached so bad.

 

He knew it was just a bad hangover mixed with the pain of coming down from the coke, but it felt like he was dying. He whimpered as he forced himself to stand, using his counters to pull himself up. He stumbled back to the living room, leaning heavily against the wall and clutching his head.

 

He collapsed onto the couch and grabbed the bottle he’d been drinking from, still not entirely empty, and drank as much as he could before the burn became too much. If he stayed fucked up, maybe his head would stop hurting so fucking much.

 

He finished it off probably too quickly and tossed the bottle to the ground, forcing himself to get up to turn the TV, which he’d realized was the source of the music, off. Walking across the room in the state he was in felt daunting, but hearing that _noise_ for any longer would be torture.

 

He made it to the TV eventually and pressed on the power button hard enough that the TV rocked. It was fine. He was going to have to get a new phone anyways, he’d get a new TV too if need be.

 

He stumbled back to the couch, grateful the sun had gone down or else he’d be blinded from the window in front of him. He fell forward onto the couch, letting his face stay buried in the cushion. Maybe if he didn’t move he could fall back asleep again.

 

He was almost there, was just on the edge of consciousness, and then there was a knock on his door. He groaned, but didn’t move. Maybe if he played dead, whoever it was would just go away.

 

More knocking, then the doorknob turning.

 

Fuck. He forgot to lock it after David left.

 

He heard the door open, but still couldn’t bring himself to move. Maybe if someone murdered him, everything would stop hurting. Honestly, that didn’t sound too bad.

 

“Parson?” a voice called out. “Where were you earlier? We were supposed to--shit.”

 

Jeff Troy, probably the teammate he was closest to. Kent was supposed to meet him to get dinner. Fuck.

 

Kent used the last shred of willpower he had to push himself up into a sitting position, squinting over at Jeff. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, wincing at how hoarse his voice was.

 

“You blew me off, I got worried. Are you okay? Is that--that’s coke, isn’t it?” he asked, firing off questions faster than Kent, half-drunk and not nearly high enough, could process.

 

He just shrugged, leaning his head back into the back of the couch and squeezing his eyes shut.

 

He felt the couch dipped next to him but elected to ignore it, hoping that if he convinced Jeff he’d fallen asleep, Jeff might leave. One could only hope.

 

“Parson, are you--how much of this have you done tonight?” Jeff asked, sounding entirely too worried for Kent’s liking.

 

He groaned quietly. “I don’t--I don’t know. Not enough. I’m fine.”

 

“You don’t look fine,” Jeff said, and Kent could practically _feel_ his worry.

 

“I’ve been worse. I’m fine. Just fuckin’ go, alright? I’ll be fine for practice, it's not gonna take two days for me to stop being hungover. It’s fine. I can still play, I’m fine,” Kent assured him.

 

“I’m not--you think I’m worried about practice? You’re still a person outside of hockey, Kent. I’m worried that you’ll fucking OD if I leave, I don’t care about _practice_ right now.”

 

“I’m not gonna _overdose,_ dude. It’s--I’m not fuckin’ Zimmermann. I know what I’m doing.”

 

He forced his eyes open and saw Jeff staring at him, frozen.  

 

“Don’t--I know you’re reading into that. I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me,” Kent snapped.

 

“So he--Zimmermann was on coke? Did he get you on it?”

 

“No! He--fuck you. It’s none of your business. Jack is none of your business.”

 

Jeff sighed. “Sorry I asked, I guess. Are--should you be getting help or something? A lot of guys go to therapy for this shit.”

  
“I’m not a coke addict. I don’t need to get help.”

  
“Bullshit, Parser,” Jeff said, no real heat behind it. “You don’t do coke in your apartment alone on a Tuesday night unless you’re an addict, or the most depressed guy in Vegas. Even the ones who come here after they get a divorce get a hooker. You need to get help.”

  
“If I say yes, will you leave?” Kent asked, dropping his head into his hands.

 

“No.” Kent glared at him. “I’ll agree not to tell the coaches though.”

  
Kent froze. He couldn’t afford them finding out. “Fine, I’ll--in the morning. You have to help me find someone.”

 

“Deal. I--yeah, I can do that.”

  
Kent nodded. “If you’re staying, help me get to bed. Everything fucking hurts, I’m not walking that far.”

  
“Of course,” Jeff said, practically jumping to his feet.

  
He grabbed Kent’s arms and helped pull him up, then wrapped an arm around him to support his weight. He walked Kent to the bedroom, practically dragging him along, and looked relieved when Kent threw himself onto the bed.

 

“Least my back won’t hurt,” Kent muttered.

 

Jeff laughed at that, and Kent took it as a small victory. He turned to leave the room, shoulders much less tense than they had been just a few minutes earlier.

 

“Hey, Troy?” Kent called out.

 

Jeff turned back around. “Yeah?”

  
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, dude. We’ve been teammates since we were rookies, you can sleep in the fucking bed.”

  
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back, I just need to do something.”

  
Kent nodded and watched him leave, then started to strip down to his boxers and burrowed himself into the blankets. He was asleep before Jeff came back.

 

\--

 

He woke up to a phone being shoved in his face. He smacked it away and sat up, bleary-eyed and confused.

 

“What the fuck,” he muttered, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

 

“You told me to help you find someone, I’m helping you find someone,” Jeff said, pushing his phone into Kent's hand.

 

“I told you to--what are you talking about?” Kent asked, squinting down at Jeff’s phone. On the screen, he saw a picture of a smiling woman with dark skin and greying hair, along with text under the image that he was far too hungover to read. “Are you trying to get me laid? Because I’m not interested. You know you shouldn't listen to anything I say I want when I’m drunk.”

 

“First of all, you weren't just drunk Parson. We both know it. You had a shitload of coke in there with you,” Jeff said. Kent buried his face in his hands, trying to silence the mantra of ‘ _you're so fucked he knows he knows he knows’_ racing through his head. “Second of all, I got you to agree to get help if I helped you look. She's good. She's helped guys like you before.”

 

Kent froze at the words ‘guys like you’. What else did Jeff find out about?

 

“Guys like me?” Kent asked, so very careful, keeping as much fear out of his voice as he could.

 

“Yeah, like, athletes who have drug problems. Which means you know she won’t leak anything, and she’ll know how to work with your schedule. She's kind of perfect, bro,” Jeff said, and Kent tried to hide his relief.

 

Still.

 

“When the fuck did I agree to this? I barely even remember you showing up last night,” Kent said, trying to recall anything about a therapist.

 

There was nothing. Jeff being there was fuzzy at best, completely black at other times. He couldn't remember much at all from the night before actually.

 

He hadn't gotten that fucked up in months. He hated that Jack made him need that. He hated Jack.

 

He didn't hate Jack. He hated himself.

 

“I don't need a therapist,” Kent insisted, before Jeff could say anything. It was too risky. He’d have to tell her why he was so fucked up.

 

He couldn't do it. Nobody could know about him, about Jack.

 

“Parson, you got so fucked up on coke and so drunk _by yourself_ that you don't even remember it. People don't just do that unless they need help.”

 

“Fuck you,” spat Kent. “You don't know anything, stop fucking acting like you do.”

 

“I know that Zimmermann has something to do with it.” Kent felt the entire world freeze. “Relax, Cap. You didn't tell me anything about him, Jesus. Actually, when I asked if he got you on coke, you almost bit my head off reminding me it wasn't my business.”

 

“Because it fucking isn't,” Kent muttered. Jeff ignored him.

 

“He's called about a dozen times though, so I’m guessing you called him last night.” Kent looked up at him, wide-eyed. “I didn't answer, okay? Chill the fuck out. Plus, if you want to be so secretive about him, I doubt he's going to rat you out either.”

 

Kent nodded. “Probably.”

 

“You need to see someone,” Jeff said again.

 

Kent sighed. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean I'm going to. There's--there’s more shit that could go wrong than right with it, and there's too much shit I can't chance. I'm not going to fucking spill my guts to a stranger.”

 

“What's it going to take to make you agree?” Jeff asked.

 

“I fucking--I don’t know,” Kent admitted. “I’m too hungover for any of this shit. I just want to sleep.”

 

“Fine, go back to sleep. We have to talk about it eventually though.”

  
And then Jeff was walking out, leaving Kent alone.

 

Kent did go back to sleep. He told himself he didn’t feel guilty for it.

 

\--

 

Jeff was gone when Kent woke up again. The coke was gone. Kent was almost pissed off enough by that to call Jeff, start a fight over it. He almost did, actually. The only thing that stopped him was seeing the missed calls from Jack when he turned on his phone’s screen.

 

He called Jack. That was more important than the coke right now. Kent could buy more of that. He might not get a chance to talk to Jack again for god knows how long.

 

It rang once, twice, three times, and then Jack’s voice came through the receiver.

 

“Fuck, Kent,” he said, and Kent felt like he was floating.

 

“Zimms,” Kent said, not masking the excitement he was feeling. Jack had answered his call. Jack was talking to him. Kent was on cloud nine.

 

“Fuck, I thought you were dead or something. You called me eight times last night, you were pissed off and high on who knows what, and just--you haven’t answered any of my calls today. I thought you’d fucking--I don’t know what,” Jack said, sounding pissed and shaky and scared and _worried_.

 

He was worried about Kent. He still worried about Kent. He couldn’t worry about Kent enough to call so many times to see if he was still alive if he didn’t care at least a little bit.

 

“I’m fine, I’m alive. I--it’s good to hear from you.” Kent hoped Jack couldn’t tell how excited he was. It might be too much.

 

“ _Crisse_ , Kenny. You can’t--you can’t keep doing this. You keep needing me and then you get wasted or high or whatever else when I’m not there, and you make me fucking worry about you, and then you act like it’s fine. I can’t be there to help you every time you fuck yourself up because I wasn’t there exactly when you wanted me to be. It’s shit for both of us,” Jack said, still sounding frustrated.

 

He was annoyed. That was bad. Kent hated it when Jack was annoyed with him. It made him tense and cold and meant he might hang up. He couldn’t hang up.

 

“Jeff thinks I need to go to therapy,” Kent said. He could tell Jack. Jack was safe to tell.

 

“I think he's right.” There wasn’t any hesitation in Jack’s voice.

 

“What if something gets leaked?” Kent asked. Jack would understand more than Jeff ever could. It would ruin Jack even more than it would ruin Kent if something got leaked, at least Kent already had a solid career. Jack hadn’t even quite graduated yet, wasn’t even officially on any team’s roster.

 

“Then your therapist would be breaking the law. I doubt an actual therapist would be willing to go to jail just to out a couple of hockey players,” he said. “I went to therapy for years after everything. It helped me. You should at least try, Kenny.”

 

Kent felt himself soften at the old nickname. “Maybe. If--if I do, could we..?”

 

Jack sighed. “Kent, I don't think it's good for me to talk to you at all when you're like this. Get some help, and then once you can--when you can handle yourself without needing me to fix you, maybe we could try to be friends. Maybe.”

 

Maybe was better than the resounding ‘no’ he got the last time they talked. He could work with maybe. Maybe meant he had a chance.

 

“I’ll try. I'll look at the one Jeff showed me,” Kent said, trying to sound assuring.

 

“Okay,” Jack said, much calmer than he had been. “I have to go, Kent.”

 

Kent tried to think of an excuse to keep him on the line, but he'd already hung up. Kent was calling Jeff within seconds, previous anger at him already forgotten.

 

Sure, he was craving a line, but that could wait a minute. Jeff would probably be looking for signs he was high.

 

It only rang once before Jeff answered.

 

“I'll do it,” he said immediately, before Jeff could say a word.

 

“Really? Do you want me to come over to help you look?” Jeff asked, sounding eager.

 

“No, don't worry about it. Just send me that one’s stuff that you were showing me this morning, she sounded like she'd be good.”

 

“You're sober, right?” Jeff asked.

 

“Yeah! I just talked to Zimms. He talked me into it,” Kent assured him. “Plus, I'm pretty sure you threw my shit away, so I don't have much of a choice but to be sober right now.”

 

“Good, that's good. I'll send you a link to her website,” Jeff said, and then he hung up.

 

Apparently nobody knew how to end a phone call anymore.

 

Kent saw Jeff's message come through around the time he hit send on a text to David, explaining that a friend found his coke and freaked and threw it away, and asked if he could bring some more. David said yes, because of course he did, and Kent opened the link Jeff sent while he waited.

 

According to the website, her name was Dr. Aliyah Williams, she’d been a licensed therapist and substance abuse counselor for almost twenty years, she'd helped hundreds of people work through their addictions, and Jeff said she’d worked with professional athletes before. So she was kind of perfect, even if Kent wasn't really an addict.

 

He emailed her to ask about availabilities, and halfway through typing it, there was a knock on his door. Kent set the phone down and walked over quicker than he’d like to admit.

 

He was already talking as he opened it. “I better be your favorite customer dude, I--”

 

Of course it was Jeff. Why would Kent have expected him to mind his own fucking business?

 

Jeff raised an eyebrow as he stepped inside. “Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

 

“I ordered takeout. I order from this one place a lot, I thought you were the delivery guy,” Kent said quickly. “You should’ve told me you were coming so I could’ve ordered you something, dude.”

  
  
Jeff shrugged. “Don’t worry about it man. I ate before I came. Sorry I didn’t text, I just figured you might want some help getting in touch with that doctor.”

  
  
“Don’t bullshit, you’re here to babysit me,” Kent said, rolling his eyes. He closed the door and walked to the couch, Jeff following behind him.

 

He sat down and picked up his phone, opening his messages to text David. Apparently he was eating takeout for dinner.

 

_jeff showed up to fucking babysit me, i thought it was you. told him i was waiting on takeout. think you could bring some fried rice or smth?_

 

As soon as he hit send, he opened Twitter, scrolling aimlessly in case Jeff decided he needed to monitor Kent’s phone as well. David texted back a minute or so later, just a thumbs-up emoji, and Kent felt himself relax.

 

Jeff turned on the TV to some cooking show, and Kent noticed his stomach growling. Maybe eating wasn’t such a bad idea. He didn’t think he’d had anything since breakfast the previous day.

  
Once he realized that, food was all he could think about. It just made it all that much more of a relief when he heard David knock.

 

“Finally, I’m fucking starving,” he muttered, springing up. “Be right back.”

  
Jeff nodded, eyes not leaving the screen. Kent grabbed his wallet off the coffee table and rushed to the door, almost shaking as he turned the knob to open it. He needed to eat. He needed some coke.

 

He opened the door, grinning broadly at David. “Hey man! Great to see you, I’m starving.”

  
He pulled some money from his wallet, much more than any fucking Chinese takeout could cost, and handed it over.

 

David passed him the bag and nodded. He knew Kent wasn’t going to underpay him. “Everything should be in there, have a nice night.”

  
“You too,” Kent said, then closed the door.

 

He hurried to the kitchen, taking the food out first and dumping it onto a plate. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Jeff wasn’t watching, and he opened the smaller container he knew the coke was in.

 

He didn’t have time to make it neat. He scooped some onto his fingertip and snorted it off, then quickly closed the container and hid it in the cabinet next to him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to ease the twitchiness that he’d started feeling.

 

He walked back to the living room, plate in hand, and sat next to Jeff. He wolfed his food down, finishing it faster than he previously thought he could.

 

Jeff didn't comment, just watched the TV intently. As soon as he was done though, Jeff turned to him.

 

“So have you looked into that doctor?” he asked.

 

Kent set his plate on the coffee table and rolled his eyes. “Was halfway through emailing her when you got here.”

 

“Oh, that’s great,” Jeff said, eyes widening a bit. “Are--were you going to make an appointment?” 

  
“I was asking about when she was available, so yeah Troy, I was going to make an appointment. I wouldn’t email her if I wasn’t going to,” he said.

 

Even if Kent replaced the coke, even if he wasn’t so twitchy anymore, he was still fucking annoyed with Jeff. He thought he was well within his rights to be. Even if Zimms thought he should try the whole therapy thing, Jeff didn’t have the right to throw away something Kent spent his money on and then try force therapy onto him, and he didn’t know nearly fucking enough to call Kent an addict.

 

Jeff just nodded. “I don’t know what Zimmermann said to you, but whatever it was, the guy deserves a fucking medal. You’re the most stubborn fucking guy I know.”

 

Kent shrugged. He was pretty sure he’d do pretty much anything if Zimms really wanted him to.

 

“Do you want any help figuring out what to say to her?” Jeff asked.

 

“I told you when we were on the phone, I got it. I know how to send an email dude.”

  
Jeff raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry to fuckin’ bother you, I guess. I just figured this kind of shit couldn’t be easy. I told Ashley I’d be back at our place at a decent time tonight, I’m just gonna go home.”

  
Kent gave a thumbs-up. “Tell her I said hey.”

 

Jeff nodded and stood. “Bye, Cap. See you at practice.”

  
And then he was leaving.

 

Kent felt almost grateful to Ashley for having Jeff so wrapped around her finger. He couldn’t hang around _all_ the time if he was worried about date nights or being back home with her or whatever else. Kent wondered when Jeff was going to get some balls and propose. The whole team did.

 

He grabbed his phone, opening his email back up and making an annoyed noise at the state of his screen. He really needed to get a new phone before he fucked up his hand using the shattered screen.

 

It would work just fine for this though. He typed up the email, something simple about a friend recommending her, asked when she had availabilities for, and said that if she had any soon, he’d need to make sure it didn’t interfere with his schedule before they set something up. He had to make it sound good. It was probably the only chance he had of ever being anything to Zimms again.

 

He hit send, and then he let himself relax.

 

He didn’t realize he was falling asleep until he woke up the next morning to his alarm blaring.

 

He groaned and dismissed the alarm, and forced himself up despite his protesting back. He really fucking hated falling asleep on the couch. It always left him feeling like he was eighty years old in the morning, his joints ached so badly.

 

He trudged to his bedroom, plugging his phone in. He might as well try to charge it at least a bit before he had to leave so it didn’t die halfway through practice. He went to the kitchen next, going through the motions of brewing a pot of coffee, and pulled the little container David had so graciously hidden his coke in the night before down out of the cabinet it was stashed away in.

 

He needed a pick-me-up, he’d slept like shit. Nobody would know the difference, not even Jeff.

 

He dumped a bit onto the counter and snorted it off, then wiped his nose on his arm. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, he didn’t need to look good when he did it. As long as it did what it was supposed to, it didn’t really fucking matter, did it?

 

He got dressed, he poured his coffee into a large thermos, he grabbed his phone, and he walked out of his apartment.

 

The high started to hit when he was halfway to the rink, and he turned up the radio, tapping his fingers on the side of the steering wheel to the beat. _Now_ he was ready for practice.

 

He wondered if that therapist emailed him back. He pulled out his phone as he pulled into a parking space. He was early, it was fine.

 

He opened his email and saw that there was, in fact a response. Apparently he’d fallen asleep even earlier than he thought he had, because her reply had come just past 8:30 the previous night.

 

She thanked him for reaching out to him, told him that she had three availabilities the next week, and he saw that two of them happened to fall when he was completely free. One in the afternoon of one of their home games, but that would end a few hours before the game, and one in the evening on a day they didn’t play.

 

He emailed back immediately, telling her that he wanted that evening appointment. He was more likely to be sober if he wasn’t playing that day. He figured it wouldn’t make the best first impression if he was high the first session he had with her. He’d heard that first impressions were the most important ones, so he had to do good on that one at least.

 

He sent the email and got out of his car with still a few minutes left before there was any real danger of him being late to get into his gear and get on the ice.

 

He was on time, of course. He’d gotten really good at being close enough to late that it annoyed the coaches, but never close enough that they could get on his ass about it. It was an art, really.

 

Practice was no more eventful than usual, unless he counted the way Jeff kept trying to make eye contact with him, which he pointedly did not count. Jeff was just too nosy for his own good. He was just looking for signs that Kent was high, which he wasn’t going to find, because Kent was the same on the ice as he always was.

 

Once they were off the ice, he made a point to bump Jeff’s shoulder with his own to get his attention. “I made an appointment,” he said quietly enough that the other guys, all preoccupied talking to each other, didn’t notice. “So you can stop looking at me like that, okay, alright?”

 

Jeff nodded, and his relief was obvious enough that it was annoying. If he didn’t tone it down, the other guys would notice something was up.

 

It wasn’t even that big of a deal. Making a fucking appointment with a therapist didn’t mean he was magically going to stop getting high and get over his problems. Honestly, he thought Jeff was making a bigger deal out of therapy than he needed to. At least Zimms had just suggested it might be smart. He didn’t try to shove it down Kent’s throat.

 

Kent thought a therapist would probably say he was mad that Jeff showed that he cared about Kent more openly than Zimms did. Then again, Kent also thought most therapists were full of shit. He wondered if this one would try to psychoanalyze everything like that.

 

He didn’t think he’d make it through more than one session with her if she did. It’d drive him to _actual_ insanity. Maybe that was what therapists did. Drove their patients insane so they’d actually _need_ therapy.

 

He’d just have to see the next week at his appointment, he supposed.

 

\--

 

The week came and went, and then he was standing outside the door of Dr. Aliyah Williams.

 

He’d fucked up and gotten high earlier that day. He was nervous. He thought it would help.

 

It did at first.

 

Then he started to come down just as he was pulling up to her office.

 

He was twitchy. He was nervous. He needed a line or two before he went in. He wasn’t fucking stupid enough to carry coke around on him though.

 

He knocked on the door. He wondered what she’d do if he told her all that. She probably wouldn’t even blink. She probably got guys in there more fucked up than him on a daily basis.

 

She opened the door and smiled at him.

 

“You must be Kent,” she said, holding out a hand to shake his. He took it, and was impressed at the strength of her grip. Whoever taught her about firm handshakes didn’t fuck around. “Right on time.”

 

He nodded, and she led him into the office. There were multiple chairs around the room, a bookshelf full of books, some toys in a corner, probably for people who couldn’t get a babysitter. She sat in a comfortable looking chair, and he sat on a couch close to it.

 

“You can call me whatever you’d like,” she said. “Some of my patients prefer to call me by my first name, some feel more comfortable calling me doctor. Whichever works for you is completely fine.”

  
“Okay, cool,” Kent said. He hated formalities. “Well Aliyah, I have no fucking clue how therapy or whatever works. How am I supposed to do this?”

  
“Just tell me about yourself. We’ll go from there.”

  
He nodded. That didn’t help in the slightest. His leg started to bounce.

 

“One of my teammates pretty much forced me to come. He found me kinda fucked up one night, and he freaked. I told Zimms about it--he--we were best friends when we were younger. He’s still my best friend. I’m not his anymore. He actually might hate me. He said it was a good idea though. I thought if I came, he might start talking to me again,” Kent explained. He figured that the reason he came was as good a place as any to start.

 

Plus, with the whole confidentiality thing, it wasn’t like she could tell Jeff how little he actually cared about all this.

 

She nodded, wrote something down. “What happened the night your teammate found you?” she asked.

 

He cleared his throat, everything in him telling him not to tell her. He was being stupid that night, he shouldn’t have been so pissed. Zimms hadn’t answered his calls in a long time, it was fucking stupid to think he would’ve that night. “I got high,” he said, shrugging. “I got pissed off and then I got drunk, and then I called this dealer I buy from. He brought me cocaine. Jeff, my teammate, showed up when I was still drunk, but I was coming down pretty fucking bad from the coke. He’s convinced I’m a junkie.”

 

“How often would you say you use?” she asked, still writing.

 

He considered a moment. “Just, like, whenever? I guess? I--you know, if I’m tired or craving some or if I just want to get high. I don’t, like, have a fucking schedule.” His fingers tapped against the arm of the couch. His leg bounced faster.

 

“And when was the last time you used?” she asked. “If you want to answer that. Remember, you don’t have to say more than you’re comfortable with.”

  
He snorted. “Everything about this makes me uncomfortable.” He opened his mouth to tell her he’d done a few lines that morning, then reconsidered. “You aren’t allowed to tell anyone any of this, right?”

  
She shook her head. “I can’t tell anyone if you use, no. The only time I can tell anyone anything is if I believe you’re going to harm yourself or another person. It’s part of my job to help people with substance abuse problems, so anything related to that stays completely confidential.”

  
He nodded. “I did some this morning. I was nervous about this. I fucking hate everything about the idea of spilling my guts to a stranger. I--I’m pretty much sober now though.”

  
“I figured,” she said. “Did you think that getting high would make you feel less nervous?”

  
He nodded.

 

“And did it?”

  
He nodded.

 

“How are you feeling now?”

  
“Like shit. I want more. When I knocked on the door I was thinking that I wished I was enough of a dipshit to carry coke around on me so I could use your bathroom and do some,” he said.

 

“So then do you use multiple times a day on an average day?” she asked.

 

“Not, like, every day. Sometimes I don’t have much, like, at all. Sometimes I have a lot. Just depends, I guess,” he said.

 

“Would you say you depend on it?” she asked.

 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. It definitely helps.”

  
“Helps with what?”

  
“Everything, I guess. It makes things easier.”

 

She hummed. “And what about Zimms? From what you said earlier, he seems very important to you.”

 

“He’s--I’m the only person who ever calls him Zimms. His name is Jack.”

  
“Of course,” she said. “Could you tell me more about Jack?”

  
He nodded. “We, uh--we met in juniors. He didn’t really talk to anyone. They all asked him about his dad. He wasn't a fan of that. So I didn’t ask. And then we were friends. We were best friends, Aliyah. We were fucking unstoppable too. We practically read each other’s minds on the ice.

 

“I guess we fought a lot. He’d get anxious about something and take too many of his meds, and I’d say something about it and we’d argue. I yelled a lot and he’d shut down. He just--he just took it. He didn’t like to yell back. It was fine though. Usually.”

 

“Usually?”

  
“I--we started hooking up. I thought it meant we were dating. We didn’t really talk about it. I was in love with him. I probably still am, honestly.”

  
“Do you think that having to stay closeted because of your career has contributed to the issues the two of you had? Or the ones you’re having now?” she asked, writing something else down.

 

He wondered what she was writing. Probably nothing good.

 

He laughed. “I mean, yeah. Probably. I haven’t slept with anyone in years because I’m fucking terrified that I’ll hook up with the wrong guy and he’ll tell the press. I’ve never _really_ dated anyone. Zimms has made it pretty fuckin’ clear we weren’t dating. I can’t trust fucking anyone, not even my own team. I’ve heard what a few of them have to say about guys like me. It’s nothing good. So yeah, Aliyah. Being a closeted gay guy in the NHL is probably part of why I’m so fucked up, and yeah, it probably fucked me and Jack too.”

  
He felt winded once he finished. “I’ve never said that I’m gay to another person before.”

 

“What about Jack?”

  
“What about him? We didn’t--we never exactly _talked_ about that kind of shit. We’d screw, and then we wouldn’t talk about it until it happened again. I don’t even know if he’s, like, gay or bi or whatever. So obviously he knows I like men, but I never said it out loud,” Kent explained.

 

“And does it bother you that the two of you never had that talk?” she asked.

 

Kent glanced up at the clock on the wall behind her. “There’s only a couple minutes left. We should--I need to pay you still. We should do that.”

 

She nodded. “Sure.”

 

They walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and he handed her his credit card, avoiding looking her in the face. He hadn’t meant to tell her anything. He definitely wasn’t planning on telling her about him and Zimms.

 

It was a fluke, probably. He was craving coke and he was nervous and he’d never been guaranteed confidentiality before. He let his guard down. He fucked up.

  
She handed the card back and smiled at him. “Do you want to go ahead and schedule your next appointment while you’re here? Since we’re just starting out, and since you’ve already made clear that you’re having problems you need to work through, I want you to come in at least once a week. Twice would be ideal, but I understand if you can only manage once with your schedule.”

 

“I’ll have to check my practice schedule first. I’ll email you again,” he said, shoving his credit card back into his wallet.

 

“Of course.” She nodded, still smiling kindly at him. “I hope I hear from you again soon.”

  
He gave a thumbs-up. “Yeah, I’ll be in touch. Have a good night, Aliyah.”

  
“You too, Kent,” she said, watching as he walked towards the door. “Oh, and one more thing.”

  
He stopped, hand already on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

  
“Just as a bit of homework. I know you told me that you only use recreationally, and that you don’t think you have a dependency, but I want you to try something. I want you to see how long you can stay sober for.” He stiffened. “You’re here to work through your issues, and getting sober is a big step. You can’t work through these things if you use cocaine or alcohol as a crutch.”

  
He clenched his jaw. “I’m here because Zimms wants me to be. That’s it. I’m fine.”

  
And then he left.

 

He was dialing Zimms’ number in his phone, his new phone, before he got to his car, and resisted the urge to throw this one too when he didn’t get an answer. Instead, he texted him.

 

_I need you to call me its abt therapy stuff i promise im sober ok?_

 

Hit hit send as he got into the car, and sat there, ignoring the way he trembled all over as he waited for a response. His phone lit up with a call just a few minutes later, and he answered it before the first ring could finish.

 

“Zimms, hey, how’re you?” he asked, voice shaking as badly as the rest of him.

 

“Kent? I thought this was about--”

  
“It is. I just--I just finished my session,” he said.

 

“Oh?” Zimms said, and Kent tried not to get annoyed with the way he was so obviously forcing his voice to sound neutral.

 

“I--fuck, Zimms. I told her too much. I told her about us. I told--I think she thinks I’m a fucking addict.”

  
It was silent on the other end. Kent almost thought Zimms had hung up. “And you think you’re not.”

  
“Fuck you,” he spat without thinking. “I’m not a junkie, Zimmermann.”

 

He heard Jack sigh. “You need help, Kent. Even if you think you don’t have a drug problem, you know you have problems. And Kent, don’t call me if you’re just going to tell me to fuck off when I say something you don’t like.”

 

The line went silent. He was gone.

 

Jack fucking Zimmermann, the guy who didn’t give a shit about Kent until he had a high horse to judge Kent from. Kent shouldn’t have called him.

 

He probably shouldn’t drive either. He needed to get home though.

  
He shook like a fucking leaf the entire time, and ran at least three red lights. It was fine. He’d do a few lines, and he’d be fine. He’d take Aliyah up on her stupid fucking challenge starting the next day. It was fine.

 

\--

 

He emailed her the next morning. Fuck Jack and all that, but he could do with the catharsis of being able to bitch without watching every word that came out of his mouth. That was it.

 

He told her every day he was free for the next month, and told her she could set up appointments for him in any of those days, and to email him to let him know when she’d set them up for.

 

He hadn’t touched his coke since the night before. He needed to prove her wrong. He wasn’t an addict, he would be fucking fine without the coke. At most, it would be annoying to deal with being sober. That was it.

 

Not painful, or unbearable, or utterly miserable like addicts felt when they had withdrawals.

 

Just annoying. The way he couldn’t quite find his rhythm at practice, the way he took twice as long to undo his skates his hands were shaking so bad, the way he could barely focus on what his teammates were saying--they were all just annoyances. Practically the same as a nasty hangover.

 

Except being hungover never made him want booze, and he hadn’t been able to think about anything but cocaine all morning. He just wanted some relief, just wanted to feel that high. He just wanted his hands to stop fucking shaking.

 

Jeff was the only one still in the locker room when he finished. Of course he was.

 

“Parse, what’s up with you today?” he asked, sitting next to Kent.

 

“Fuckin--it’s nothing. I’m fine. I’m not high, I know that’s what you’re asking,” Kent said, forcing himself to stand. “See? I’m fine.”

  
“You’re not, but okay. Do you want a ride? You don’t look like you should drive right now,” Jeff offered.

 

“I got it, okay? I’ve driven further way more fucked up than this. It’s--it’s not that big of a deal,” he said, probably a bit too forcefully.

 

Jeff sighed. “Did you go to that appointment last night?”

  
“Yes,” Kent said. “Stayed the whole time too. Emailed her this morning to schedule all my appointments for the next month. I’m doing what you asked, can you get off my dick about it?”

 

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Sure can, Captain. See you tomorrow.”

  
Kent wondered if that was enough to get Jeff to fuck off. He was in therapy. He was doing what Jeff had wanted him to. It should be enough for him.

 

Kent walked slowly out to his car, hoping he didn’t look as exhausted as he felt. He wanted some fucking coke.

 

He barely registered the drive home. It felt almost like he got behind the wheel, blinked, and then he was at his apartment door, fumbling to put the key in the lock.

 

Maybe not being high was more than annoying. What did it fucking matter? He got the key into the lock. It was fine.

 

Then, he was in his kitchen, dumping a small pile of cocaine onto the counter and separating it into lines without being entirely aware he was doing it. It was pure muscle memory. He was completely aware when he leaned down and snorted all of them in quick succession though. He knew what he was doing then.

  
And so what if it proved that he might depend on the coke a bit more than he thought he did? He was in the NHL, it wasn’t like he was the only one. Plenty of guys were honest-to-god addicts who couldn’t get out of bed in the morning without enough coke to kill someone.

 

Kent just needed a push from it. No big deal.

 

As he stumbled to the couch and waited to start feeling less like living shit, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He groaned and pulled it out, leaning over and laying his head on the arm of the couch. It was his mom.

  
He’d forgotten to call her the night before after all the shit with Aliyah. They always made it a point to talk at least once a week, and he’d forgotten. She was probably worried. Fuck.

 

He watched it ring until he’d missed the call. He’d call her back when he didn’t feel so shit. It was fine. He could just tell her he was feeling a bit under the weather the night before. It wouldn’t be a complete lie.

 

She called again less than a minute later. Okay, maybe he could tell her he was still sick. He felt shitty enough that it would be believable. He answered the phone.

 

“ _D_ _í_ _os m_ _ío_ , Kenneth Parson, you had me worried half to death,” she said, and he could practically see her standing there with her arms crossed, phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder. “First you don’t call me last night, then you don’t answer the phone today, and I saw you took some hits in your last game, I was worried sick!”

 

“ _Perd_ _ón_ mami, I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just have a cold. It’s no big deal, _lo prometo_ ,” he assured her, eyes falling shut. “I was just too tired last night.”

 

She huffed. “You should have at _least_ called to tell me that much. How are you feeling? You have Vicks, right?”

 

He hummed. “Getting there. And mami, you know I have some. You made me get it last time you visited.”

 

“Do you need the recipe for my chicken soup?” she asked. “You know it makes you feel better.”

 

“Mami, you know I can’t cook,” he reminded her. “Plus, I’m already feeling better. I’m alright.”

 

The coke had started to do its job. So he wasn’t lying. He really did feel much better.

 

“Fine,” she said. “How is everything else?”

  
“Well, you’ve been watching my games,” he said. “We’re having an alright season.”

 

“Outside of hockey, mijo! Any girlfriends?” she asked, way too enthusiastic.

 

He rolled his eyes, sighed. “No, mami. No girlfriends.”

  
She sighed. “I just don’t want you to get lonely out there, mijo,” she said, sounding worried again.

 

“I’ve got friends from the team, I’m not lonely,” he assured her. He’d gotten too good at lying to her, probably.

 

“If you say so,” she said. “But at this rate I’m never going to have any little _nietos_ to come and visit me with you.”

 

He snorted. “Mami, there’s plenty of time for all that. We’re both way too young for me to be having kids.”

  
_Also I’m gay and almost always high on cocaine that everyone thinks I’m addicted to and maybe they’re not that far off._

 

“Don’t try to flatter your way out of this, Kenny! You need to find someone nice to settle down with, nobody’s going to want to marry you when hockey has knocked out all of your teeth!”

 

He let out a surprised laugh. “I promise I’ll settle down before all my teeth are gone, okay?”

 

“Good.” Her voice softened. “You know I just worry about you, you’re so far away now. I can’t see if something’s wrong with you anymore if you don’t tell me about it. And I just want you to have someone that can help you since I can’t be there with you, hijo.”

  
“I’m in therapy,” came out of his mouth before he could stop it.

 

“You’re what?”

 

He couldn’t read her tone. That was bad, probably.

 

“There’s just, uh--there’s things I can’t tell my teammates, so I’m going to therapy to get help with those things,” he said, trying his damndest to avoid even hinting at what those things were.

 

“What kind of things?” She sounded panicked, maybe pissed off. “Therapy is for _los locos_ , Kenny, why do you need it?”

 

He pushed down his irritation. Going to therapy already made him feel like he was insane, this wasn’t helping. “It isn’t just for _los locos_ , mami. Anyone who needs help can go.”

  
She huffed. “Well why are you going?”

  
“To get help with things I can’t tell my team about,” he repeated.

 

“Well you can tell me!” she exclaimed. “And I’m not going to make you pay hundreds of dollars for it.”

  
“I--” _I can’t tell you. I’m sorry._ “I’m gay.”

  
Silence.

 

He hung up. He put the phone on silent, set it face down on the coffee table, and stood up.

 

He was too high.

 

He was usually so careful.

 

God, he’d fucked up.

 

He wondered if Aliyah responded to his email. He wondered if this was something she’d know how to deal with, because he sure fucking didn’t.

 

He went to his room, grabbed his old, shattered phone. It still worked to check his email, but it couldn’t receive calls.

 

Aliyah had responded an hour earlier. The soonest appointment was in three days. That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t put off calling his mom back for three days, she’d find a way to fly out to Vegas before that.

 

He looked down at the bottom of the email, saw the phone number she provided. He sighed. It would require looking at his phone, but he didn’t know what the fuck to do, and there was literally nobody else he could ask.

 

He walked back to the living room and grabbed his phone, unable to stop himself from checking how many missed calls he had, despite his best efforts.

 

Eight. All from his mom.

 

She called again while he was dialling Aliyah’s number. He waited for it to send her to voicemail before he hit call.

 

Three rings.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Aliyah, hey. It’s Kent. Parson,” he said, pacing around the living room.

 

“Kent, hi! Did the times I sent you work?” she asked.

 

“Yeah, they’re fine. I--I fucked up a bit,” he said, the definition of forced casualness.

 

“What happened?” He wondered how she could sound worried and nice at the same time. He sounded like a dick when he was worried.

 

“I came out to my mom.”

  
“How did it go?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know. I hung up,” he admitted.

 

“Has she tried to call back?” Aliyah asked slowly.

 

“A shitload of times, yeah.”

  
“What are you thinking about doing?” she asked.

 

“Honestly? A line,” he said. “I should probably call back though. If I get higher, she’ll know something’s up and she’ll flip shit more than she probably already is.”

  
“It sounds like you already know what you’re planning on doing,” she noted. “What made you think to call me?”

  
“I’ve never done this before. I’ve never come out to anyone, I already told you that. I don’t--I don’t know what the fuck to do when I call her. I don’t even know how she’s going to feel about me being gay. We never talked about that kind of shit,” he told her. “I didn’t even mean to tell her. It fucking--it slipped out.”

  
“So you’re afraid of her reaction?” Aliyah asked.

 

“Well, yeah. Of course I am,” he said.

 

“I don’t think you should call her before you think you can,” she said. “In fact, I think that’s probably the worst thing you can do. Give yourself some time to calm down, then call her. If you don’t think you could have a productive conversation with her right now, then not calling is the best option. If you aren’t able to talk about it in a beneficial way, it’ll lead to much more stress for the both of you than if you just waited a few minutes to talk about it.”

 

“Probably,” he agreed. “So I should wait?”

  
“Unless you’re ready to have a productive, rational discussion about it, then yes. Not long enough for her to think something happened to you, but long enough that you’re feeling a bit calmer about the situation. I know it’s a scary one, so it’s probably not going to stop making you anxious, but since this is such a big part of you, it’s important that you can talk about it, even even if it’s just to me or your mom. It’s also important that you can do it without relying on being high to make it easier,” she explained, the last statement sounding particularly pointed.

 

He laughed. “Bit late for that, I got high before she even called me.”

 

“Is it normal for you to use this late in the day?” she asked.

 

“Look, we’ll talk about my fucking coke problem next time I’m in your office. I need to go so I can find a way to figure out how to talk to my mother about the fact I’m gay,” he said. “Bye, Aliyah.”

  
“Bye, Kent. Good luck. We’ll talk about it in your session.”

  
He ended the call, feeling marginally calmer than he had before. At least he had a plan now. He kept pacing, did all those bullshit ‘calming’ techniques the internet recommended, tried to come up with something to say in his head.

  
Which proved to be difficult since he had absolutely no idea how she was going to feel about it. He wouldn’t know unless he got the balls to call.

  
Fuck it.

 

She called again. He answered.

 

“Mami,” he said, “I’m sorry I hung up. I panicked. I--yeah.”

 

“No, keep going. Tell me why you drop a bomb on me like that and then hang up. Didn’t even give me time to think and then you leave like some _pendejo_!”

 

“The only person I’ve ever told is my therapist! I was scared, mami, _es aterrador_! I don’t know how you feel about gay people, I didn’t know how you’d react, I don’t know how to talk about this because I never have before. I panicked, that’s it,” he said, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head telling him this was the polar opposite of what Aliyah wanted him to do.

 

“Kent, Díos, I’m not angry that you’re gay, ¿ _comprendéis_? I’m angry that you hung up before I could say anything. Mijo, I don’t have problems with you being gay. I was just surprised. Just because you’ll marry a man instead of a woman one day doesn’t change anything, you’re still my baby,” she told him, voice much more calm.

 

Her felt his throat get tight, felt his eyes well up. “So we--we’re okay?”

  
She sighed. “Yes, we’re okay. Don’t scare me like this again?”

  
_So I guess this isn’t the time to tell you I’m on cocaine right now?_

 

“I won’t, mami,” he said instead. “And before you ask, I don’t have a boyfriend either.”

 

“When you get one, you better tell me,” she warned him.

 

“Won’t happen anytime soon, I promise.”

  
She hummed. “Maybe. If you find one, make sure he can cook for you. You eat fast food too much.”

  
“I’ll try, promise,” he said, head still spinning. “I’m gonna go to sleep, I have practice in the morning.”

  
“Goodnight, Kent. Te quiero, mijo,” she said, and he thought he heard her sniffle.

 

“Love you too.”

  
She hung up that time.

 

She was okay with it. They were still okay. He felt like he was floating.

 

He wasn’t even that high anymore, but he felt so _good_. He had someone now, someone besides a therapist, that knew. He could talk to his mom about being gay now.

 

They could talk about it. He didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to talk about anything related to him liking men with his mom.

 

The circumstances he came out to her in weren’t exactly ideal, and maybe he would’ve liked to be sober and looking her in the face, but he did it. He told her.

 

He didn’t feel like shit when he went to bed. It was a good feeling.

 

\--

 

“So how did your talk with your mom go?” Aliyah asked when he sat himself on the same couch in her office as last time, his leg starting to bounce as soon as he sat down.

 

“It--she took it well. She was pissed that I hung up on her, but she--she took the gay thing really well,” he said, nodding.

 

“I’m glad it did,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “You look better than last time you were here. Any reason for that other than your mom?”

  
He shrugged. “I just feel fucking great right now, I guess. She’s probably part of it? I just--I feel fucking good.”

 

“Is this maybe something you experience pretty often, cycling through emotional highs and lows?” she asked.

 

He cleared his throat. “I mean, I guess. That's not the coke though, that's just--I don't know. I've always been like that?” He laughed. “Like when it's good, I'm on top of the fucking world, and then when it's bad it's rock bottom bad usually.”

 

“When would you say that started?” she asked.

 

“No fuckin’ clue. Forever? Maybe? Jack never stopped complaining about it,” he said, shrugging.

 

“So would you say that these emotional highs and lows were a point of contention in that relationship?”

 

He rolled his eyes, irritation welling up in him. “He was about as emotionally available as a toaster, so yeah. If I was too fucked up, I was putting pressure on him to try to fix both our issues. If I felt good, I was overbearing and expecting way too fucking much from him apparently. No matter which side of it I was on, I had to fuckin’ pull it together and act like the happy medium around him to get him to give me the time of day.”

 

“And you wanted that attention from him?”

 

“Well yeah, always. Still do. It's fucking stupid,” Kent said, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“In our first session, you said you came because you thought it would make Jack want to talk to you again. What made the two of you fall out?” she asked, writing again.

 

“He--” Kent sighed. “The night before we were supposed to get drafted, he took way too many of his anxiety meds. Found him on the bathroom floor half dead, called the ambulance for him and everything. He just totally iced me out after that. I saw him in the hospital a couple times and he barely talked to me, never fucking looked me in the eyes. I think he was pissed I went first in the draft like it was my fault even though he's the one who decided to try and off himself. His parents put him in rehab and he didn't let me see him there, barely answered my calls, never answered my texts, and by the time he decided to go to college he’d totally ghosted me. No idea why, and now he hates me even though I saved his fucking life.”

 

“And he never gave any explanation?”

 

“Like a year ago, he told me his therapist said I was an unhealthy influence in his life, whatever the fuck that means.”

 

“Did Jack regularly abuse his medication?” she asked.

 

“I guess, yeah. He ran out of them way quicker than he was supposed to, but he was rich enough that doctors didn't give a shit. They'd refill it because he paid them fucking plenty, even if he finished a month’s worth of pills in a week, sometimes less. He made me take him to go get refills sometimes because he’d be too fucked up on his meds to drive.”

 

“Well it isn't unusual for addicts to be recommended to cut out people they associate with their addiction, especially other addicts or people who encouraged the addiction,” Aliyah explained. “Even if you weren't using at the time he started to cut contact, you were still someone who helped him to fuel his addiction, and there was that association in his mind.”

 

“And he couldn't just fucking say any of that?” Kent asked. “Like, obviously that's probably it. Addicts are kind of like your whole thing, so I buy that. Why the fuck didn't he say anything?”

 

“He may have thought you'd react badly, so he thought it would be better to just ignore the problem,” she said.

 

“Wouldn't surprise me, he hates talking shit through. Plus, even if I did get pissed about it, he should've told me! He just fucking acted like being his best friend for years didn't mean shit to him anymore, of course I was pissed off,” he rambled, shaking his head.

 

“I’m noticing you're much more willing to criticize him today than at our last session,” she commented.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Because he's a dick. I called him the other night, after the last time I was here, and he was a total dick about it.”

 

“Did he tell you not to contact him before this?”

 

“Well, I mean--” he sighed. “Sort of? He said that I--I wasn't good for him until I’m, like, fixed or whatever.”

  
“Fixed?” she asked. “Could you elaborate on that?”

  
“No fucking clue. He just, like, said he couldn’t fix me or some shit and that, like, we couldn’t be friends until I don’t need him? Which makes no fucking sense,” he explained.

 

“Do you think that his problem is you needing him, or the extent to which you need him?” she asked.

 

“He just said he couldn’t deal with me needing him to fix me, which is fucking ridiculous because I never asked him for that.”

  
“Even if you don’t directly ask him for help fixing you, which is a term you should try to avoid in the future anyways, it’s possible that you gave off that impression,” she explained.

 

“Why shouldn’t I use it? That’s why everyone fucking wants me here, to fix me,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows. What was wrong with using it if it was the only fucking term that fit?

 

“The goal in here isn’t to ‘fix’ you, because that implies there’s something broken that can just be repaired and forgotten about. In reality, the goal of therapy of any kind is learning to manage your issues and live with them. This isn’t a miracle cure to problems, it’s just meant to provide a means to help you work through these things. And you will need to work through them, they won’t just disappear because you come to therapy,” she told him, her voice maintaining that same steady, pleasant tone she always seemed to hold around him.

 

“What’s the fucking point of all this then if it won’t make everything stop being so shitty?” he asked, significantly less pleasant than her.

 

“Well ideally, once you start wanting to get better and get to a point where you’re willing to work through these things, it _will_ make thing easier for you. It’s just a matter of being willing to put in the work to get to that point, and maintaining healthy practices insteading of falling into habits that harm you,” she explained, shifting in her seat.

 

“And how do I do that?”

 

He hadn’t given a shit about himself since probably the last time Jack gave a shit about him, as fucked up as that probably was. If he had to give a shit about himself to start doing therapy right, he probably wasn’t getting there anytime soon.

 

“For you, I think the first step is establishing a way for you to have a sense of importance that doesn’t stem from Jack or from hockey. Being on good terms with Jack makes you feel good, and so does doing well in hockey, but it doesn’t seem like there’s much outside of that that has that same emotional affect on you,” she said. “Having something you could control and care for that doesn’t have the same instability as your relationship with Jack or hockey could be a good step in that.”

 

He stopped a moment, thinking.

 

“So what? Get a fucking fish?”

 

“If that's what you think could do that for you,” she said.

 

“Yeah sure, I’ll get a fucking fish to deal with my problems,” he said.

 

“Kent, it doesn't have to be a fish. You don't even _have_ to do this. It's only a suggestion.”

 

“No, I'll get the fish. I don't have a fucking clue how to take care of a plant, and fish are way easy.”

 

“Okay,” she said, then looked to the clock. “It looks like your time is just about up.”

 

“Right.”

 

He paid, he said goodbye, and then he got in his car to go to the pet store. He was coming down from the coke and his head was hurting, and he had no fucking clue where he was going to put a fishtank in his apartment, but it was fine. He’d figure it out.

 

He pulled into the parking lot and hopped out of his car, plan in his head. He’d walk in and pick the fish first, then ask what it needed, then he’d buy it all and take it home. He knew he had the money. He just needed to do it. He’d completely fucked up Aliyah’s first ‘homework’ assignment, he'd get this one right.

 

Except fate or whatever else decided to throw a wrench in his plans the moment he walked in the door. Just a few steps in, right in plain sight of the door, were several cats in kennels built into the wall, and one of them was looking him right in the face.

 

Fish forgotten, he made a beeline for the cats. The one who had initially caught his eye had light, long fur, bright green eyes, and large, dark ears. She pawed at the glass when he got close, meowing loudly. He was in love.

 

There was no way he could get a fish after seeing her.

 

He called an employee over, and a few hours of questions and paperwork later, she was his. He bought all the necessary things to take care of her while the employee got her ready, and then they were going home.

 

The people at the pet store advised him to let her stay in her carrier if she wanted to, just to set it down and open it and let her come out on her own time. They also said he should leave the carrier there for her, at least for a few days, while she got used to his apartment.

 

He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building and parked, trying to decide what order to bring everything in. It took longer than he was willing to admit, his brain completely fogged over from withdrawals.

 

Eventually though, he decided he’d bring the cat inside first, and leave her carrier closed while he went back down to grab the rest of her stuff. He didn’t want to chance her trying to run outside when he opened the door to get back in. He’d never had a cat before, but he knew they were fast little fuckers.

 

It took three trips and close to half an hour, but eventually he had everything set up for her.

 

The food and water bowls were in the kitchen, there was a (still unopened, he’d get to it in the morning) box containing a cat tree in the living room, and there was a litter box in the corner of the living room, another in his bedroom, and another in one of the spare bedrooms. He wasn’t going to limit her, she could go anywhere in the apartment, and he’d been told that since his place was on the bigger side, he needed more than one litter box.

 

The last step was to open her carrier. He set it near the food, in case she got hungry but wasn’t ready to go too far from the carrier. He popped open the door and walked into the kitchen, thinking that she’d probably want to be alone when she decided she was ready to come out and explore.

 

Plus, his headache was fucking killer, and he needed it gone, and the only thing that could do that was safely hidden away in his kitchen cabinets.

 

\--

 

She came out later that night, just when he’d started to feel high.

 

She was even more pretty than she was in the pet store.

 

He sat on the floor and reached out a hand, trying to see if she’d come to him. She ignored him in favor of the food--understandable--and once she’d eaten her fill, she sniffed at his hand cautiously, then bumped the top of her head against it.

 

He cried. She trusted him. He didn’t deserve her, she was perfect.

 

He scratched behind her ears, grinning from ear to ear, tears streaming down his face. She was so soft, it was unreal. He probably looked insane.

 

She rubbed her face against his hand and started to purr, her tail flicking lazily behind her while he scratched under her chin. He loved her.

 

After a few minutes, she got bored of him petting her and backed away, slowly walking around the living room, sticking close to the walls. Every so often, she’d sniff at things to decide whether or not she could trust them. Once she’d gone around the entire perimeter of it, she started to explore the rest of it, and quicker than she’d done anything since she’d been there, she jumped up onto his coffee table and laid down.

 

He sat perfectly still, watching as she made herself comfortable and fall asleep within a minute. He envied her ability to sleep that easily.

 

He watched her for a few more minutes, but she didn’t seem like she was planning on moving anytime soon. He stood and walked quietly over to her, needing a picture to remember the first time she fell asleep in his apartment.

 

He posted it to his Instagram, captioning it with ‘ _ive had her for like two hours and not to be dramatic or anything but shes the love of my life_ ’.

 

Even though it was late, the picture was immediately flooded with comments. One that came up pretty frequently was people asking about her name.

 

He couldn’t even blame the fact that he was high when he replied ‘ _kit purrson. duh_ ’. He was definitely perfectly conscious of that choice. If fucking Katy Perry could do it, he could do it infinitely better.

 

\--

 

They had an away game just a few days later. They were only gone for a day, so Kit would be fine, but it did make him realize he needed to find a catsitter. Sometimes he was gone for more than a week, and he barely felt okay leaving her alone overnight when he knew she wouldn’t run out of food or water. He didn’t want her to get lonely.

 

He looked into it online while they were on the road, researching way more than he typically researched anything. He was pretty sure it took him longer to find a catsitter than it took for him to find his apartment, especially considering all his looking into apartments happened while he was on the plane to Vegas after the draft, and he ended up settling on the very first one he looked at.

 

He needed to make sure Kit was in good hands though. He’d narrowed it down to three by the time he got back home, and he didn’t even feel all that ridiculous when he emailed them to arrange an interview. He needed to make sure she wouldn’t hate them.

 

They all got back to him within a few hours, and he scheduled a time to meet up with each of them within the next few days.

 

His next appointment with Aliyah was the day after he got back.

 

He walked into her office feeling less shitty than he ever had doing so. He actually had good news for her this time.

 

She smiled at him as he sat down. “Hey Kent, how are you doing?”

 

“I got a cat,” he said, excited. “I was gonna get a fish, but then I saw this cat and she was the prettiest cat I’ve ever seen and she’s perfect and I got her instead. I got all the stuff she needs, no worries, and I’m taking care of her.”

  
“It wasn’t a planned decision to adopt her?” Aliyah asked.

 

“Nope, but it’s chill. I have everything she needs and she likes my place and she likes me. Do you want to see her?” he asked.

 

She smiled. “Sure, Kent.”

  
He pulled up a picture in no time--his camera roll was full of pictures of her--and held the phone out to Aliyah. She took it, and he saw her smile widen just a bit.

 

“She’s definitely a pretty cat,” Aliyah agreed, handing the phone back to him. “Do you have plans for when you’re gone for extended periods of time so she’s taken care of?”

  
“I’m meeting with some people that I think could watch her to see which one of them is the best one, I’ve got it all covered,” he assured her. “I know it was, like, impulsive or whatever and that’s probably the kind of thing you tell people to stop doing, but it’s all good. I’m doing all the shit she needs.”

 

“It’s a good sign that you already know how to recognize impulsive behavior,” she commented. “I believe that you’re taking care of her though. You just have to be sure not to let yourself slip on that.”

 

“For sure,” he agreed. “I have timers and shit for every few hours to check on her food and water, and it’s not possible to forget about the litter boxes because it smells the worst when you forget about them. Plus, she’s pretty much the love of my life, so she’s not in any danger of being forgotten about.”

 

“That’s a great strategy, Kent. Is there anything else going on in your life that you’d like to talk about?”

  
He cleared his throat. “I’ve started thinking Jeff was probably right,” he confessed.

 

“About what?” she asked.

 

“I’m probably an addict. Like, a for real addict,” he said. “It’s fucking stupid. I don’t know how to not be high.”

 

“And what led you to that?”

 

“Jeff and Jack are both fucking convinced I am, and you are too, and when that many people you know who are, like, usually right all say the same thing, it’s probably right. I don’t know. There’s also, like, I don’t just get high when I feel like shit anymore. Even when I’m playing with Kit, my cat, and I’m in a great fucking mood, I can’t be sober or I feel like I’m dying.”

 

“And what do you want to do with that information?”

  
He snorted. “I don’t fucking know. Not be a junkie? I can’t--I need to be at the top of my game. We’re for sure going to the playoffs, and if I’m having fucking coke withdrawals, we won’t make it past the first round. I’m the captain of my team, I have to be there for them.”

  
“Is it more important to you than you than your health?” she asked.

 

“Honestly? Yeah. If I need to keep fucking myself up for my guys’ sake, I’ll do it. When I got the C, that meant I had to do whatever I need to do to get my team as far as possible. I can’t do that if I can't even fucking lace up my skates.”

 

“So it feels like you don't have any other options because of where your team is this season?”

 

“Pretty much,” Kent agreed. “I fuckin--it doesn't even feel, like, great to be high. It doesn't even feel like I'm high anymore honestly. It’s just something I have to do now to get through the day.”

  
“So if you think it isn’t possible to try to get sober during the season, what do you believe the best course of action is?” she asked.

 

“If--if I just try to stop myself from getting worse, that’s something right?” he asked, slumping forward.

 

“Do you think you’re the best person to measure whether your addiction is getting worse?”

  
“Fuck no,” he said. “I’m--I didn’t fucking realize I _had_ an addiction until everyone shoved it in my face.”

 

“Then that isn’t something that’s likely to be manageable for you, and anyways, you’re looking to make progress, not stay stagnant.”

  
“I could--I don’t know. The offseason? Call in sick to events for a few weeks? Fuck, how long does it take for this kind of shit?” he asked.

 

“The rule most people follow is that after twenty-one days of refraining from a habit, the habit is broken. I don’t know that it would fit your situation though, given the circumstances,” she said.

 

“What fucking circumstances?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

 

She sighed. “Well, it’s too early for me to give an official diagnosis, but you’ve exhibited enough symptoms of borderline personality disorder that when it comes to these sorts of things, we have to look at it through a slightly different lense than people without that disorder.”

  
“That didn’t clear up anything. Like, at all,” he said. “I have no fucking clue what that is.”

 

She stood and walked over to her bookshelf, pulling one off. When she walked back over, she sat on the other end of his couch instead of her chair.

 

“This book contains the diagnostic criteria for every known mental disorder,” she said, flipping through it, “including borderline personality disorder.” She stopped on a page and handed the book to him. “I think that it could be a good idea for us to go over the criteria for it together, and you can tell me if you think it applies to you.”

 

“Yeah, why not,” he said, nodding.

 

“So these are the symptoms that are required to diagnose a personality disorder of any kind,” she said, pointing.

 

He read them over, feeling himself shrinking down into himself as he read.

 

He mentally checked off each one as he read, only pausing when he reached the last one.

 

“This one says this shit can’t be caused by substance abuse,” he said. “How do you know that’s not it?”

  
“You said yourself that you’ve behaved this way before drugs came into the picture. Not only that, it seems like one of the reasons you use may be as a form of self-medication to make these symptoms easier to deal with,” she explained.

 

“I guess, yeah,” he agreed.

 

She flipped ahead a few pages. “And these are the criteria that need to be met for a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder.”

 

He read them over, asking questions when he needed, feeling a whole cocktail of things he couldn’t even begin to analyze when his head was already starting to ache as his high started to dissipate.

 

They described him too well. It almost made him a little nauseous. It took all the parts of him he fucking hated the most, the parts he would deny existed to his dying breath if anyone else accused him of having, and stated them so matter-of-factly on the page.

 

It forced him to not only read those things and think about their accuracy, but to look up at Aliyah and tell her he more than fit into those little boxes.

 

Maybe it wasn’t so difficult to analyze the way it made him feel. He fucking hated it. He hated having to admit he was the exact brand of fucked that she suspected he was, and he hated that it almost felt good to have a name to put to it.

 

“So what the fuck does this, like, mean? I get the symptoms or whatever, but what do I fucking do about it?” he asked.

 

“We’ve gone a few minutes over your time already, Kent. We’ll discuss all of that in your next session though, okay? In the meantime though, I would actually suggest you not look into it much before we’ve had the chance to really talk about it. A lot of things you’ll find online are outdated or extremely biased,” she said.

 

He nodded. “Yeah, alright. So I just don’t do shit about this until I come back?” he asked, probably sounding too pissed off.

 

“For now, you can take what you know and use that to try to recognize how these symptoms affect you in your day-to-day life, and see if you can think of anything that could make those that you notice easier to manage. And I would prefer it if we could talk about all of this at once too, but I have an idea of how often you use, and I know if you’re here much longer, you’ll be putting yourself and others in danger if you drive yourself home.”

 

He huffed. “Not like I’ve never driven like that before,” he muttered.

 

“I don’t doubt that Kent, but that isn’t something I’m going to knowingly make you do. I’ll see you next week though, okay?”

  
“Sure, fine. Still have to pay you though.”

  
He walked over to the desk he’d paid at every time before and handed her the right amount in cash. “Figured that would be quicker.”

  
She took it and nodded, then looked up at him. “I’ll see you at our next session.”

  
“See you,” he parrotted.

 

He went straight home this time. He needed to feed Kit. He was almost offended on her behalf that none of the guys from the team had come to visit her.

 

He checked his phone at a red light a few minutes after he left Aliyah’s office, and saw a missed call from Jeff. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Jeff had pretty much hit the nail on the head when he said Kent was a coke addict who needed to get help, which was almost more irritating than if he’d been full of shit.

 

Still.

 

Kent called back.

 

Jeff answered on the second ring.

 

“Parser, hey,” he said, sounding pleasant enough.

 

“”What’s up?” Kent asked, sounding marginally less upbeat.

 

“I know you’re pissed at me or whatever, but I keep thinking about the situation and I’m fuckin’ worried about you,” Jeff said.

 

Kent sighed. “Look, I’m on my way back to my apartment right now. Meet me there and we’ll, like, talk I guess.”

 

“Really?”

  
Kent was going to disinvite him if he didn’t stop sounding so excited.

 

“Yeah, but chill the fuck out or you’re going to freak my cat out.”

  
“Sure, see you in a few.”

  
“Yeah, bye.”

  
Kent groaned. It was only 4 p.m., but he was too fucking tired for the heart to heart Jeff was probably expecting. For a straight guy, he was way fucking in touch with his feelings, and Kent could barely handle that on days when he didn’t have a therapy session where he talked about his drug problem and got told he probably had some fucking personality disorder he’d never even heard of before.

 

He pulled into his parking spot, hopefully before Jeff got there, and rushed upstairs. Jeff wasn’t waiting outside, so at least Kent wouldn’t have to talk about his shit while he was just sober enough to be horrendously uncomfortable in his own skin.

 

He greeted Kit as soon as he walked in, and then he made a beeline for the kitchen. He did enough to, hopefully, make it through Jeff being there, and then he fed Kit. He sat on the ground next to her, absentmindedly stroking her back as he waited for Jeff and waited for the coke to do its job.

 

Jeff got there first. Kent answered the door and tried to pretend his brain wasn’t pounding out of his skull.

 

“Kit’s eating, so you’ll have to wait until she’s done to meet her. I don’t know how she feels about strangers around her when she’s eating,” Kent said, leading Jeff to the living room and flopping down onto the couch.

 

Jeff sat down on the other end. “Your place is covered in hair.”

  
“Been too busy to vacuum and she’s a longhair. I’ll get around it though, it’s chill,” he said.

 

There was a moment of silence.

 

“I know you came over because you’ve got, like, questions or some shit. So go on, shoot.”

  
“Are you still going to see that therapist?” Jeff asked.

 

“That’s where I was coming from when I told you I was on my way here. She wanted me to go twice a week but with games and shit, I only go once. Haven’t missed an appointment, haven’t been late to one, and haven’t left one early. I’m doing just fine on the whole going to see my therapist thing.”

  
“Do you like her?” he asked.

 

“She’s good at her job I think. I like her as much about as I could like someone who knows way too much about me,” Kent said.

 

“That’s good,” Jeff said. “Is she helping?”

  
“No fucking clue,” Kent said honestly. “She got me to admit I have a drug addiction, that’s something. Still not sober though. Baby steps or whatever.”

 

His headache started to fade, and his ears started letting him focus on what Jeff was saying without needing to use all his concentration. Thank fuck.

 

“Are you high right now?” Jeff asked, raising his eyebrows.

 

“High? I don’t know about that. Doesn’t feel like being high anymore. Is there currently cocaine in my body? Yeah, for sure.”

  
“She hasn’t gotten you to quit?”

  
Kent snorted. “Yeah, like it’s that easy. Believe me, Troy. It’s worse for me than it is for you. I know this is shitty for me, and I know it makes me an even bigger asshole a lot of the time. But I also have to be able to play hockey, and I can’t fucking do that if I’m having withdrawals.”

  
“Shouldn’t getting sober take priority here?”

  
“Maybe. I don’t fucking know. I have the C, which means I have to be at the top of my game. I can’t do shit that’ll hurt my playing,” Kent explained. “Playoffs start in less than two weeks, and there’s, like, a month and a half tops left in the season after that. Once the season’s over and we have a couple months pretty much free, I’ll try to fucking get sober. Me and Aliyah already talked about this. I’m not throwing the playoffs away this year to try to get my shit together a couple weeks earlier.”

 

“Fine. Just--just as long as you’re actually trying.”

  
Kent rolled his eyes, then lit up when he saw Kit trot into the room. “Hey Princess! Come over here,” he called, patting the couch next to himself.

 

She chirped and ran over, jumping onto the couch and biting his hand, then licking it. At this point, he was pretty sure that was just the way she showed she wasn’t biting him to be aggressive, just to play.

 

He saw Jeff smiling at her, and the tense mood was all but gone.

 

\--

 

The time leading up to the playoffs flew by.

 

Jeff and Kent reached a sort of peace. Jeff came to visit him and Kit every few days. He brought Ashley with him sometimes, and Kit liked her much more than she liked Jeff.

 

He kept seeing Aliyah regularly. She explained more to him about what exactly borderline personality disorder was, and two sessions after the first time they discussed it, he had an official diagnosis. He’d pretty much come to terms with the fact he wasn’t just a cokehead, he had actual mental health problems that wouldn’t go away if he got sober.

 

He hadn’t tried to call Zimms since after that first session with Aliyah. She said that if he kept trying to talk to him before he’d learned to control his emotions a bit better, it would just fuck both of them up.

 

She didn’t say it like that, of course. She was always so articulate about those things.

 

She could teach him about dealing with emotions better once they figured out why the fuck it was so hard for him in the first place. BPD tended to come with a bunch of patterns of thinking and feeling that Kent happened to fall right into, and so Aliyah was able to use that to help him combat those things.

 

He was still fucked up on coke pretty much all the time. One step at a time or whatever. Aliyah said it was important that to remember they were at least starting to work through certain things.

 

For starters, he’d started to practice removing himself from situations when they started become stressful or irritating to the point it made him want to get high, start a fight, or some combination of the two.

 

Since walking away from a shitty situation was, obviously, not always an option, she’d told him tips to make the situation less stressful. He could divert the topic away from whatever was causing a significant amount of stress, he could try to think about something that caused him less stress if at all possible, and he should always make sure to keep his breathing steady and his muscles relaxed.

 

He still felt like utter shit a lot of the time, but he was starting to figure out how to stop that shitty feeling from spiralling until he couldn’t think about anything else and he had to get obscenely high to deal.

 

He found a catsitter too, someone who didn’t know enough about hockey to be a creep about the fact she’d be in Kent’s apartment but understood how fucked his schedule was sometimes and didn’t have a problem with how often she’d have to come by to feed Kit, and most importantly of all, Kit liked her.

 

He was making progress, at least a bit.

 

Then playoffs came and ruined everything. The schedule was killer, he knew that. It always was.

 

He wasn’t sleeping, so he used more, used so much he didn’t want to tell Aliyah how bad off he was, and then he was lying to his therapist about his drug addiction. He was so fucked up so often he almost reminded himself of Jack back in Juniors. It scared him a bit, how he could go through an entire day and then remember less than half of it by the time he went to sleep, if he slept that night.

 

If he wasn’t a proper drug addict before, he definitely was by the end of the first round of the playoffs. He hadn’t been anywhere near sober since they started.

 

He didn’t overdose like Jack. He almost thought that would’ve been easier to explain.

 

Instead, he collapsed in the middle of a game, in the middle of the ice.

 

When he woke up, he was in the trainer’s office, his head was pounding, and he could barely open his eyes.

 

“You awake, Kent?” the team medic asked, leaning over Kent.

 

Why couldn’t he remember the guy’s name? He’d been in his office more times than he could count to get checked out for whatever injuries he got on the ice.

 

Kent grunted out a noise that didn’t resemble human words in the slightest, but it was enough that the medic knew he was awake.

 

“I need you to sit up, Kent. I’ve gotta test for a concussion.”

  
Kent grunted again and forced himself into a sitting position. “Go ahead.”

  
“Did you lose consciousness on the ice?”

  
“Fucking obviously, dude.”

  
“Look, I’m required to ask, okay? Um, do you remember anything from around when you blacked out?”

 

“I know I’m supposed to say whatever shit will make you clear me to go play, but I’m gonna fucking pass out again if I do, so let’s try this. No, I don’t even remember getting on the ice to play. The last thing I remember was putting my jersey on,” Kent said, completely honestly. He didn’t have a concussion though, he was just on copious amounts of cocaine and he wasn’t quite sure when he last ate or slept.

 

“So you don’t remember what the score was or who was on the ice or anything?” he asked.

 

“You could tell me our fucking mascot scored the first goal of the game and I wouldn’t be able to say you were wrong.”

 

The medic’s eyebrows raised, and he wrote something down.

 

“Do you have a headache?”

  
“Bigtime.”

  
“How’s your vision?”

  
“My vision is supposed to be perfect and right now I feel like I’m looking through my abuela’s glasses.”

 

“Do you feel lightheaded or dizzy?”

  
“Pretty fucking bad.”

 

The medic cleared his throat. “Yeah Kent, there’s no way I can let you go back out there.”

  
“Unless you want me to black out on the ice twice in one night, then yeah. Probably smart,” Kent agreed, laying back down. “So, are you officially diagnosing me with a concussion?”

  
“A pretty severe one.”

  
“Cool, haven’t gotten that one in a couple years.”

  
“Is it actually a concussion, Kent? Or is it something else? Because you haven’t gotten any big hits to your head recently, and nobody hit you tonight. You just fainted.”

 

“Does it matter? Either way, you’re gonna diagnose it as a concussion so those people out there don’t lose their shit if you tell them what’s really up with me. You’ve seen this before, and you know if you don’t say it’s a concussion, the media’s gonna have a fucking field day with the Aces’ star player, and you’ll be right there in the middle of it.”

 

“It’s already in my computer as a severe concussion,” the medic agreed. “You’ll be out for the rest of the season.”

  
“Got hit a few games ago. It didn’t knock me out then, so I didn’t think it was a big deal until tonight.”

  
“Sounds about right. I’ll let your coaches know.”

  
Once the medic--what was his fucking name?--left, Kent forced himself up and staggered to the locker room, leaning most of his weight against the wall. There was no fucking way he was driving, but he was lucky enough that they were in Vegas at least, so he could just call an Uber to take him home.

 

He changed back into the workout clothes he’d worn there, grateful that someone had taken off his skates while he was still unconscious, because there was exactly no chance he’d be able to get them off on his own.

 

He went back to the trainer’s office just to let the medic know he was getting an Uber home, because as severe a concussion he was supposed to have, he shouldn’t go back out there, where there would be screaming people and bright lights everywhere.

 

The medic agreed with little trouble, and then Kent was leaving. He waited for his Uber outside, knowing his odds of running into someone who gave a shit about whether or not he was concussed would be much higher inside.

 

He went home, picked Kit up, carried her to bed, and passed the fuck out.

 

He woke up eighteen hours later, head still pounding. He knew it was withdrawals, along with the lack of food, and probably dehydration as well.

 

He stumbled to the kitchen, stomach growing at him. Food was priority number one apparently. He grabbed a microwavable meal from the freezer and put it in for the directed amount of time, then grabbed a bottle of water, downing the whole thing before his food was even halfway finished.

 

His hand twitched, reaching for the cabinet his coke was in. He actually stopped to consider, probably for the first time in at least a year, whether or not he should. He told himself, he told Aliyah, and he told Jeff that he’d try to get sober once the season ended.

 

His season was beyond over, even if  the Aces were still in the playoffs, and due to the fact he was diagnosed with a severe concussion, he wouldn’t be expected at any press or events of any sort for weeks.

 

But still. The season wasn’t over, and he didn’t want to waste what he had left.

 

He’d finished off the last of it by the time the microwave beeped. Now all he had to do was not call David for more.

 

\--

 

He made it through two days of being sober before it became unbearable. The headaches, the shaking, the twitching, the constant hunger, the inability to hold his food down, the constant exhaustion, the inability of literally anything to make him happy, including Kit, was enough to make him ready to lose his fucking mind.

 

For the first time, he understood why Jack thought overdosing was an option. He felt the fucking worst he had in his life.

 

After those two unbearable days, he had an appointment with Aliyah. He thought about cancelling because there was no fucking way he could drive, but even he knew that thinking that someone who tried to kill himself maybe had the right idea was a bad sign.

 

He called Jeff.

 

“Kent, dude. How are you holding up?”

  
“I need a ride,” he said. He didn’t have the energy for pleasantries.

 

“I don’t know if you’re really supposed to be going anywhere yet? Doctor said your concussion was pretty bad,” Jeff reminded him.

  
“I don’t have a fucking concussion. My blood was made of cocaine and I didn’t eat and I don’t think I’d slept in like two days. I have an appointment with Aliyah and I’m fuckin--I can’t drive.”

  
“I, uh--yeah, I’ll be right over.”

 

Kent hung up. He forced himself to stand and walk to the kitchen to get some ibuprofen for his head. It wouldn’t do much at all, but it was better than nothing. Probably. He hadn’t decided.

 

He refilled Kit’s bowls while he was up, then slipped on a pair of shoes. He wasn’t going to bother with nice looking clothes. If it was good enough not to cause a media scandal, it was good enough to wear to see his therapist when he was waiting for two years’ worth of cocaine to get out of his body.

 

Jeff was there within ten minutes, and Kent put on a pair of sunglasses before he opened the door. He may not have been concussed for real, but if any sun got into his eyes it was game over.

 

Jeff didn’t say anything as he led Kent to his car. Kent was grateful for it. He didn’t know how well he’d be able to hold a conversation. Probably not great since he was going to therapy. Whatever. Aliyah would be fine.

 

He barely registered the drive there. He may have fallen asleep. He wasn’t sure.

 

“Do you want me to walk you up there?” Jeff asked as he pulled into the parking lot.

 

Kent waved him off. “I got it. My session ends in an hour and a half, can you be back here then?”

 

“Yeah man, for sure,” Jeff assured him.

 

Kent gave him a thumbs-up and stepped out of the car, walking much too slowly to the door of Aliyah’s office. He knocked, and when she opened the door, she looked almost surprised to see him.

 

“Come in, come in,” she said, opening the door wide for him.

 

He did just that, and collapsed onto his usual seat.

 

“You didn’t drive here, did you?” she asked as she sat down.

 

He shook his head in a definitive ‘no’. “Jeff brought be, ‘s fine.”

  
“Kent, you’re supposed to be at home recovering from a concussion right now,” Aliyah said, almost scolding.

 

“Don’t have a fuckin’ concussion. Just too much coke and no sleep or food before hockey. I ran out of coke and I haven’t bought anymore and I feel like shit,” he told her.

 

“So you weren’t being honest with me when you said you were keeping yourself from spiralling,” she commented.

 

“I don’t even remember telling you that, so probably. Feel like Zimms,” he said.

 

“In what way?”

  
“‘S why I came. Everything hurts and I feel like shit and I get why he took all those pills before the draft,” he explained. “I’m not killing myself or whatever, but I get it now.”

 

“And so you thought it best to come see me?”

  
“Pretty much,” he agreed, shrugging. “Thought that if fuckin’ offing myself sounds better than being sober, seeing my therapist is probably smart.”

 

“I’m glad you know that’s something you need to bring to my attention, even if it isn’t something you plan to act on. You don’t normally experience suicidal ideation, do you?”

  
“Nah, that’s the one big thing I never really got much.”

 

“So then you’re confident that thought was caused solely by the withdrawals?”

 

“For sure,” he confirmed.

 

“And how long has it been since you used?” she asked.

 

“Two fuckin’ days and I’m already this fucked up,” he said. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

 

“Kent, for cocaine addicts, the first seven to ten days are the worst when you’re trying to get sober. The second day being difficult is completely normal during this. You just have to try to keep in mind that it’ll only be a few more days before it starts to get easier, and once you pass that first big hurdle and it’s on its way to being out of your system, it gets much easier to manage.”

  
“How the fuck do I get through another week?” he asked.

 

“Do you have your dealer’s phone number memorized?” she asked.

 

“Fuck no.” Who memorized their dealer’s number? He didn’t even have his mom’s number memorized.

 

“Then I think deleting his number could be one way of making it easier.”

 

He shrugged. “Probably,” he said, and pulled out his phone. “If I don’t do it now, I’m sure as shit not doing it when I get home.”

 

He scrolled through his contacts, selected David’s name, and hit delete before he gave himself a chance to think about it. If he thought about it, he’d have second thoughts.

 

And then David was out of his phone. That was probably a step.

 

He yawned. “I’m just--I’m so fucking tired always.”

 

“Because cocaine is such a strong stimulant, and since your body hasn't functioned without that stimulant in years, fatigue and exhaustion are common,” she explained. “It's another one those withdrawal symptoms that makes functioning while sober so difficult at first.”

 

He groaned. “It's fucking miserable.” He leaned over and laid his head on the headrest. 

 

“It'll all be worth it though in the end,” she assured him. 

 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

 

They didn't talk as much as they had in previous sessions. He was too fucked up to provide anything to talk about, and she was too understanding to ask him questions that weren't necessary to make sure he wasn't going to kill himself because of his withdrawals, or talk about anything not meant to help him understand what was happening to him. She'd talked to him about withdrawals before, of course, but it was different when they were currently wreaking havoc on his body and his brain.

 

When time ran out, he didn't get up to pay, just handed her his wallet. She took it and walked across the room, then came back a minute later with it. 

 

“I hope this part doesn't last too long for you,” she said. “And if this puts you in a bad enough place mentally that you think you might hurt yourself, or you're thinking about using again, you know where to call me.”

 

He nodded, pushing himself up from the couch. He stumbled to the door, declining Aliyah’s offer to help him. He could fucking walk himself. 

 

He already wished he didn’t delete David’s number by the time he opened the door. He didn’t remember the last day he contacted him either. He deleted all his texts regularly, and he talked to too many people for looking through his call history to be a viable way to find him. 

 

He really didn’t have any way to contact him. 

 

Jeff had parked near the door to wait, and Kent was beyond grateful for it. Walking across a whole parking lot alone didn’t seem like a great idea. He all but fell into Jeff’s car after opening his door, closing his eyes as soon as he buckled himself in. Even with the sunglasses, it was too fucking bright outside.

 

“How was it?” Jeff asked. 

 

“Well, apparently feeling like I’m being fucked by the devil is normal,” Kent said. “So that’s good to know, I guess.”

 

“It’s that bad?” he asked. 

 

“Yeah, Jeff, it’s that bad. My body hasn’t not had this shit in it in years, it’s freaking the fuck out over it. Literally everything in my body wants it,” he said. 

 

“Fuck, dude,” Jeff said.

 

Kent just nodded, resting his head against the window. The glass was cold enough to feel great on his head. 

 

“Do you want me to, like, hang out at your place until it starts to feel better? Just to help you take care of your cat and make sure you’re taking care of yourself and all that?” he asked. 

 

Kent shrugged. “If you want. You’ll have to come up with an excuse or some shit for Ashley though.”

  
“I mean, she thinks you’re super concussed, so I can just tell her you called and said you needed some help,” he said. “You know she’d be more than fine with that.”

  
“Yeah, probably,” Kent agreed. “Sure, you can crash at mine until I have my shit together.”

  
“I’ll call Ashley once we get to your place,” Jeff said. 

 

“Cool.”

  
They rode the rest of the way in silence save for the sound of Jeff tapping his fingers on the wheel. Kent wanted to get home already, to curl up in his bed with Kit and sleep for the next hundred years or so.

 

What he really wanted was coke. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted something so fucking badly. 

 

He was trying to get better though. He had to. For Jeff, for Aliyah, for Zimms. He was starting to think he should for himself too. He fucking hated everything about it. He wanted it to stop. The only way it could stop was if he either got clean or died, and Aliyah already told him that dying wasn’t the way to go. Kent didn’t really want to be dead, he didn’t think, he just wanted to sleep until nothing hurt anymore. 

 

He went straight to bed when he got home. He’d barely done shit and he felt like he’d just run a marathon. He was fucking hungry too. 

  
Why did withdrawals make him need food so much more than anyone should eat?

 

He heard Jeff walk in. “You need anything?”

 

“Kit. Some bread,” he muttered. 

 

“Okay, sure,” Jeff said, and then Kent heard him walk away. 

 

A minute or so passed, and then he heard Kit yelling. He probably should’ve warned Jeff that she always freaked out for a second when she got picked up. He heard Jeff’s footsteps, much quicker this time, and then felt Kit flop onto the bed next to him.

 

She chirped and jumped onto his legs, settling herself in on his thighs. Kent sat up and scratched behind he ears, reaching towards Jeff with his free hand. Jeff handed him the whole fucking loaf of bread. 

 

“Dude, this shit makes me want food all the time. If you give me that, I will eat it all, and I’ll fucking puke,” Kent said. 

 

“Okay, good to know,” Jeff said, taking the bread back and giving Kent just a couple slices of it. “Need anything else?”

  
Kent shook his head. “I just want to sleep.”

  
Jeff nodded. “I’ll leave you alone then.”

  
Kent laid back down, shoving almost an entire slice of bread in his mouth at once after Jeff left and closed the door behind him. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, he was just trying to eat as quickly as possible so he could go to sleep so he didn’t try to dig through his phone to find David. 

 

\--

 

Day three was about as shitty as day two.

 

Day four was worse. A lot worse. He couldn’t get out of bed, he couldn’t get his head to stop aching, he couldn’t eat, he could barely sleep he was shaking so badly it was bordering on crippling. All he could think about was getting high. He made Jeff hide his phone, curled into the fetal position, and stayed like that all day.

 

Day five felt fucking great compared to that. He was able to walk to the kitchen and make himself a sandwich, he could scroll through his social media without ending up in his call logs, he sat on the couch with Jeff and watched TV for a couple hours before it started to hurt his head too badly. 

 

By day nine, his body was feeling almost normal again. His head was barely hurting, he could hold his hands steady, his appetite was manageable, he could go outside without the sun making him want to die. 

 

Mentally though? He was beyond fucked. His brain didn’t know how to feel things anymore. His emotions were flat. He couldn’t get excited about anything. He couldn’t feel pissed off about anything. He didn’t know how to feel things anymore without the coke to make everything more intense. 

 

It was almost worse than how hellish the physical withdrawals were. He’d always felt  _ so much _ so intensely, his whole life. And now there was nothing. He needed to feel everything again. 

 

He would’ve found some way to go get fucked up too if Jeff wasn’t still at his apartment. It felt like he never left at all. He probably didn’t, at least not without Kent while Kent was conscious. 

 

It wouldn’t surprised Kent if Jeff researched this shit and knew Kent still needed a babysitter. Kent couldn’t even feel more than vaguely annoyed about it. 

 

Jeff drove him, again, to his appointment with Aliyah. Kent didn’t need to wear sunglasses this time. He still leaned his head, against the window, closed his eyes, tried to sleep. It was easier to deal with this absence of feeling fucking anything if he just wasn’t conscious. 

 

He went straight inside when Jeff parked, not bothering to say goodbye. He’d see him in like an hour, it was fine. 

 

“You’re looking a lot better than last time I saw you,” Aliyah commented when he sat down. 

 

“All the, like, physical symptoms or whatever are pretty much gone,” he said, shrugging.

 

“And how are you feeling?” she asked, settling herself in her chair. 

 

“Well I can leave my house now. That’s a plus,” he said.

 

“And mentally?” she opened her notepad.

 

“Well,” he started, “not too great.”

 

“Can you elaborate?”

 

“Fuckin--I can't feel shit. I looked it up and apparently it's a thing. Coke, like, fucks with your neurotransmitters or whatever and so when I’m not high I can't feel fucking anything.”

 

Aliyah cleared her throat. “That was something we discussed a few weeks ago, but I’m guessing that's one of the sessions you don't remember much from?”

 

“Yeah, I had no fucking clue this would happen. Makes me want to get fucked up more than the physical shit did. I’ve always had way too much emotion and now I have, like, none except for fucking miserable.”

 

“And how are you managing that?”

 

He snorted. “I'm not. I'm sleeping a lot so I don't try to find a way to go get high, Jeff is still staying with me since I'm in bed too much to take care of Kit, this is the first time I’ve put on real clothes in almost two weeks.”

 

“Depression-like symptoms are common around this point in sobriety, and it sounds like that's what you're experiencing,” she said. “It should benefit you to manage these feelings in a way similar to people with depression.”

 

“Like what?” He'd do just about anything to make this shit go away.

 

“It's important that you don't let yourself sleep all day, first of all,” she told him. “If you're afraid you're going to use, keep someone around you. Get dressed every morning, try to leave the house for a bit every day, get positive human interaction.”

 

“And that'll get rid of it?” he asked.

 

“No, but it will help to make it more easily manageable. Your emotions should return to something more normal for you within the month, and if they don't, then we may need to look into antidepressants. For now though, I’m confident these symptoms are stemming from withdrawals.”

 

“Fuck, it better start getting better soon,” he groaned, leaning his head back.

 

If not, he might start reconsidering his stance on whether or not sobriety was even worth it. What was the point if it made him miserable? 

 

Still, he agreed to stick to it, he agreed to try the things she suggested. They talked about potential ways he could do that, and he decided he’d go to the gym in his building a couple times a week, he’d take his team up on offers to go out to dinner, but not bars, and if all else failed he could hang out at Jeff and Ashley’s. 

 

The key to dealing with depression was keeping busy, apparently.

 

\--

 

The first big emotion he felt again was anger.  Of course. And it was Jack that caused it. Of course. 

 

He texted Kent, asked if he was healing all right. Kent was already irritated that Jack did, in fact, sign on with the Falconers, and this felt like the final straw. He called Jack. 

 

Jack actually answered. 

 

“Okay, what the fuck,” he said before Jack has the chance to say anything. 

 

“Kent, what--”

 

“You told me not to fucking talk to you, so I stopped calling. For months, actually. Did exactly what you wanted. Then news comes out that I got a concussion so bad I couldn't even watch my team in the fucking playoffs. Then they got knocked out and I, their captain, couldn't be there for them because I couldn't even get out of bed for more than a few minutes. And I didn’t call through all that because I’m trying to fucking do better and you said you didn't want to talk to me until I’m better. But you can just call out of the blue to see if I’m healing up alright? What the fuck, Jack?”

 

Jack was silent on the other end. “Okay, yeah. That’s--that’s fair,” he said eventually. “Do you want me to hang up?”

 

Kent sighed, almost more irritated at that question. “You know I fucking don't. You know that I always want fucking attention from you, even when you make me more pissed off than literally anyone else on the planet. You should though. My therapist doesn't think I should talk to you either until I can actually fucking deal with my feelings, especially my feelings about all our shit.”

 

“Okay, yeah. Bye Kent,” he said. 

 

“Bye Jack. And my head is healing just fine.”

 

And then Jack hung up. Kent hated Jack for calling him, and he hated himself for wishing he’d told Jack to stay.

 

He’d been managing. He’d been doing better. Jack could fucking ruin all that without even trying.

 

He called Jeff. 

 

“Let’s get lunch,” he said. “I’m--I need to be not by myself.”

 

“Okay, for sure,” Jeff said. “Is it alright if Ashley comes with?”

 

“Yeah, I don't care. Doesn't matter. I’m just all fucked up right now.”

 

“Meet at our usual place?” 

 

“Yeah, see you in a bit.”

 

They had a specific place they went when Kent needed company like this. It was just a little burger place, but the food was good and there weren't enough people there for it to get him stressed out. It was kind of perfect for them. 

 

\--

 

He told Aliyah about his call with Jack at his next session. She told him she was proud of him for recognizing that talking to Jack right now would do more harm than good, and said that even if he lost his temper, he handled it exponentially better than he would've when he first started coming to see her. 

 

It made him feel a bit less shitty about it. He almost felt proud of himself too. It was a nice feeling.

 

\--

 

Jeff bought him a cake when he was officially sober for a month. He cried. 

 

It was the first time he’d felt genuinely touched, genuinely happy without being high in years and it was just  _ so much _ . Jeff sat with him until he calmed down, rubbing his back, and looked embarrassed when Kent thanked him profusely.

 

“Dude, it’s no problem. Honestly. I’m just--I’m glad you’re doing so much better.”

  
Kent sniffled. He was a fucking mess. “Sorry I was such a dick to you. Aliyah said I should work on apologizing to people I hurt before I got sober, and I was a royal piece of shit, so. I’m sorry.”

 

Jeff shook his head. “You’re good, man. You know I don’t like to hold grudges. We’re fine, okay?”

 

Kent nodded. “Okay, yeah.”

 

Jeff cut them each a slice of Kent’s cake, and they ate in relative silence. 

 

“I proposed to Ashley last night,” he said casually. 

 

Kent choked on his cake. “And she said..?”

  
“She said yes, dude. I’m--we’re getting married. We’re both fucking excited about it. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  
“Yeah sure, what about it?” he asked. “No second thoughts, right?”

  
“Oh, god no. I’m more than happy spending the rest of my life with her,” Jeff assured him. “I was going to ask if you wanted to be my best man.”

 

“You want--”

  
“I don’t have any brothers or anything, and you’re pretty much my best friend, so it felt right. I thought about it before I even proposed to her,” he said.

 

“I’m gay,” Kent told him. “I--you know, you’re probably my best friend now too. You’re, like, my only actual friend. Just thought you should know.”

  
Jeff was frozen for a moment, just long enough that Kent was ready to lock himself in his bedroom for the rest of his life. “Do--did you think that would change anything? I still want you to be my best man. I’m not some piece of shit who’s gonna get freaked out because you’re gay.”

  
Kent nodded. “Okay, yeah. Alright. I’ll be your best man.”

 

Jeff was ecstatic. It was the best night Kent had had in years. 

 

\--

 

After another month of sobriety, Kent’s appointments with Aliyah were consistent at once a week, rather than the trying-for-twice-but-sometimes-once a week schedule they’d had before. Apparently that meant he’d made enough progress that she didn’t think he needed help as often. 

 

His moods were still a bitch. He still felt more than any human being should. He still couldn’t talk about Jack, or even think too much about him, without feeling pissed and hurt and god knows what else. He still really fucking craved coke sometimes. He was still impulsive on his best days and downright reckless sometimes. 

 

He was making progress though.

 

He’d come to terms with the fact that, for him, it was a matter of managing these things, that there was no getting rid of them entirely. 

 

He at least tried not to let his moods completely control him, especially the ones that were unreasonable at best. He succeeded at that more often than not on a good day. 

 

He’d learned what the term ‘favorite person’ meant in terms of BPD. He was almost relieved when he did. Everything about it was what Jack was to him, and Aliyah had told him that he could manage his emotions when it came to Jack just like he could with most situations, it would just take a bit more work. She seemed confident he’d get there eventually.

 

He called Jeff when he was craving coke. It didn’t make him stop wanting it, but it made it nearly impossible to get it. Sometimes it was a burning need, sometimes it was just an itch. He’d gotten good at not giving into it though. 

 

The impulsivity was still a struggle. He still rarely recognized when he was being impulsive until after he’d done whatever the impulsive thing was. He’d get there eventually, probably. 

 

It was still beyond a struggle to manage everything. He still had to actively think about everything he did more than the vast majority of people. He had to analyze his emotions more than anyone he’d ever met. 

 

But he had good days now. In fact, he had more good days than bad days. He actually had hope for himself. 

 

He hadn’t had that since he was sixteen years old and kissing Jack Zimmermann for the first time.

 

It was nice, having that hope for himself. It was nice having it without needing Jack to share it.

 

He felt good about the future. About  _ his  _ future. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you read all 20k, thank you! leave a comment to lmk what you think, i crave feedback at all times


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